Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

Besides, all do not care for the delightful exercise. A sumptuous spread in the dining-room, with wines at discretion, attracts a proportion of the guests; while there are others who have a fancy to go strolling about the lawn, even beyond the coruscation of the lamps; some who do not think it too dark anywhere, but the darker the better.

The elite of at least half the shire is present, and Miss Linton, who is still the hostess, reigns supreme in fine exuberance of spirits. Being the last entertainment at Llangorren over which she is officially to preside, one might imagine she would take things in a different way; but as she is to remain resident at the Court, with privileges but slightly, if at all, curtailed, she has no gloomy forecast of the future. Instead, on this night present she lives as in the past; almost fancies herself back at Cheltenham in its days of splendour, and dancing with the "first gentleman in Europe" redivivus. If her star be going down, it is going in glory, as the song of the swan is sweetest in its dying hour.

Strange that on such a festive occasion, with its circumstances attendant, the old spinster, hitherto mistress of the mansion, should be happier than the younger one, hereafter to be! But, in truth so is it. Notwithstanding her great beauty and grand wealth – the latter no longer in prospective, but in actual possession – despite the gaiety and grandeur surrounding her, the friendly greetings and warm congratulations received on all sides – Gwen Wynn is herself anything but gay. Instead, sad, almost to wretchedness!

And from the most trifling of causes, though not as by her estimated; little suspecting she has but herself to blame. It has arisen out of an episode, in love's history of common and very frequent occurrence – the game of pique. She and Captain Ryecroft are playing it, with all the power and skill they can command. Not much of the last, for jealousy is but a clumsy fencer. Though accounted keen, it is often blind as love itself; and were not both under its influence, they would not fail to see through the flimsy deceptions they are mutually practising on one another. In love with each other almost to distraction, they are this night behaving as though they were the bitterest enemies, or at all events, as friends sorely estranged.

She began it; blamelessly, even with praiseworthy motive; which, known to him, no trouble could have come up between them. But when, touched with compassion for George Shenstone, she consented to dance with him several times consecutively, and in the intervals remained conversing – too familiarly, as Captain Ryecroft imagined – all this with an "engagement ring" on her finger, by himself placed upon it – not strange in him, thus fiancé feeling a little jealous; no more that he should endeavour to make her the same. Strategy, old as hills, or hearts themselves.

In his attempt he is, unfortunately, too successful; finding the means near by – an assistant willing and ready to his hand. This in the person of Miss Powell; she who went to church on the Sunday before in Jack Wingate's boat – a young lady so attractive as to make it a nice point whether she or Gwen Wynn be the attraction of the evening.

Though only just introduced, the Hussar officer is not unknown to her by name, with some repute of his heroism besides. His appearance speaks for itself, making such impression upon the lady as to set her pencil at work inscribing his name on her card for several dances, round and square, in rapid succession.

And so between him and Gwen Wynn the jealous feeling, at first but slightly entertained, is nursed and fanned into a burning flame – the green-eyed monster growing bigger as the night gets later.

On both sides it reaches its maximum when Miss Wynn, after a waltz, leaning on George Shenstone's arm, walks out into the grounds, and stops to talk with him in a retired, shadowy spot.

Not far off is Captain Ryecroft observing them, but too far to hear the words passing between. Were he near enough for this, it would terminate the strife raging in his breast, as the sham flirtation he is carrying on with Miss Powell – put an end to her new-sprung aspirations, if she has any.

It does as much for the hopes of George Shenstone – long in abeyance, but this night rekindled and revived. Beguiled, first by his partner's amiability in so oft dancing with, then afterwards using him as a foil, he little dreams that he is but being made a cat's-paw. Instead, drawing courage from the deception, emboldened as never before, he does what he never dared before – make Gwen Wynn a proposal of marriage. He makes it without circumlocution, at a single bound, as he would take a hedge upon his hunter.

"Gwen! you know how I love you – would give my life for you! Will you be – " Only now he hesitates, as if his horse baulked.

"Be what?" she asks, with no intention to help him over, but mechanically, her thoughts being elsewhere.

"My wife?"

She starts at the words, touched by his manly way, yet pained by their appealing earnestness, and the thought she must give denying response.

And how is she to give it, with least pain to him? Perhaps the bluntest way will be the best. So thinking, she says, —

"George, it can never be. Look at that!"

She holds out her left hand, sparkling with jewels.

"At what?" he asks, not comprehending.

"That ring." She indicates a cluster of brilliants, on the fourth finger, by itself, adding the word "Engaged."

"O God!" he exclaims, almost in a groan. "Is that so?"

"It is."

For a time there is silence; her answer less maddening than making him sad.

With a desperate effort to resign himself, he at length replies, —

"Dear Gwen! for I must still call you – ever hold you so – my life hereafter will be as one who walks in darkness, waiting for death – ah, longing for it!"

Despair has its poetry, as love; oft exceeding the last in fervour of expression, and that of George Shenstone causes surprise to Gwen Wynn, while still further paining her. So much she knows not how to make rejoinder, and is glad when a fanfare of the band instrument gives note of another quadrille – the Lancers – about to begin.

Still engaged partners for the dance, but not to be for life, they return to the drawing-room, and join in it; he going through its figures with a sad heart and many a sigh.

Nor is she less sorrowful – only more excited; nigh unto madness as she sees Captain Ryecroft vis-à-vis with Miss Powell; on his face an expression of content, calm, almost cynical; hers radiant as with triumph!

In this moment of Gwen Wynn's supreme misery – acme of jealous spite – were George Shenstone to renew his proposal, she might pluck the betrothal ring from her finger, and give answer, "I will!"

It is not to be so, however weighty the consequences. In the horoscope of her life there is yet a heavier.

CHAPTER XXIX

JEALOUS AS A TIGER

It is a little after two a. m., and the ball is breaking up. Not a very late hour, as many of the people live at a distance, and have a long drive homeward, over hilly roads.

By the fashion prevailing a galop brings the dancing to a close. The musicians, slipping their instruments into cases and baize bags, retire from the room; soon after deserted by all, save a spare servant or two, who make the rounds to look to extinguishing the lamps, with a sharp eye for waifs in the shape of dropped ribbons or bijouterie.

Gentlemen guests stay longer in the dining-room over claret and champagne "cup," or the more time-honoured B. and S.; while in the hallway there is a crush, and on the stairs a stream of ladies, descending cloaked and hooded.

Soon the crowd waxes thinner, relieved by carriages called up, quickly filling, and whirled off.

That of Squire Powell is among them; and Captain Ryecroft, not without comment from certain officious observers, accompanies the young lady he has been so often dancing with to the door.

Having seen her off with the usual ceremonies of leave-taking, he returns into the porch, and there for a while remains. It is a large portico, with Corinthian columns, by one of which he takes stand, in shadow. But there is a deeper shadow on his own brow, and a darkness in his heart, such as he has never in his life experienced. He feels how he has committed himself, but not with any remorse or repentance. Instead, the jealous anger is still within his breast, ripe and ruthless as ever. Nor is it so unnatural. Here is a woman – not Miss Powell, but Gwen Wynn – to whom he has given his heart – acknowledged the surrender, and in return had acknowledgment of hers – not only this, but offered his hand in marriage – placed the pledge upon her finger, she assenting and accepting – and now, in the face of all, openly, and before his face, engaged in flirtation!

It is not the first occasion for him to have observed familiarities between her and the son of Sir George Shenstone; trifling, it is true, but which gave him uneasiness. But to-night things have been more serious, and the pain caused him all-imbuing and bitter.

He does not reflect how he has been himself behaving. For to none more than the jealous lover is the big beam unobservable, while the little mote is sharply descried. He only thinks of her ill-behaviour, ignoring his own. If she has been but dissembling, coquetting with him, even that were reprehensible. Heartless, he deems it – sinister – something more, an indiscretion. Flirting while engaged – what might she do when married?

He does not wrong her by such direct self-interrogation. The suspicion were unworthy of himself, as of her; and as yet he has not given way to it. Still her conduct seems inexcusable, as inexplicable; and to get explanation of it he now tarries, while others are hastening away.

Not resolutely. Besides the half-sad, half-indignant expression upon his countenance, there is also one of indecision. He is debating within himself what course to pursue, and whether he will go off without bidding her good-bye. He is almost mad enough to be ill-mannered; and possibly, were it only a question of politeness, he would not stand upon, or be stayed by, it. But there is more. The very same spiteful rage hinders him from going. He thinks himself aggrieved, and, therefore, justifiable in demanding to know the reason – to use a slang, but familiar phrase "having it out."

Just as he has reached this determination, an opportunity is offered him. Having taken leave of Miss Linton, he has returned to the door, where he stands hat in hand, his overcoat already on. Miss Wynn is now also there, bidding good-night to some guests – intimate friends – who have remained till the last. As they move off, he approaches her; she, as if unconsciously, and by the merest chance, lingering near the entrance. It is all pretence on her part, that she has not seen him dallying about; for she has several times, while giving congè to others of the company. Equally feigned her surprise, as she returns his salute, saying, —

"Why, Captain Ryecroft! I supposed you were gone long ago!"

"I am sorry, Miss Wynn, you should think me capable of such rudeness."

"Captain Ryecroft" and "Miss Wynn," instead of "Vivian" and "Gwen"! It is a bad beginning, ominous of a worse ending.

The rejoinder, almost a rebuke, places her at a disadvantage, and she says rather confusedly —

"Oh! certainly not, sir. But where there are so many people, of course one does not look for the formalities of leave-taking."

"True; and, availing myself of that, I might have been gone long since, as you supposed, but for – "

"For what?"

"A word I wish to speak with you – alone. Can I?"

"Oh, certainly."

"Not here?" he asks suggestingly.

She glances around. There are servants hurrying about through the hall, crossing and recrossing, with the musicians coming forth from the dining-room, where they have been making a clearance of the cold fowl, ham, and heel-taps.

With quick intelligence comprehending, but without further speech, she walks out into the portico, he preceding. Not to remain there, where eyes would still be on them, and ears within hearing. She has an Indian shawl upon her arm – throughout the night carried while promenading – and again throwing it over her shoulders, she steps down upon the gravelled sweep, and on into the grounds.

Side by side they proceed in the direction of the summer-house, as many times before, though never in the same mood as now; and never, as now, so constrained and silent – for not a word passes between them till they reach the pavilion.

There is light in it. But a few hundred yards from the house, it came in for part of the illumination, and its lamps are not yet extinguished – only burning feebly.

She is the first to enter – he to resume speech, saying, —

"There was a day, Miss Wynn, when, standing on this spot, I thought myself the happiest man in Herefordshire. Now I know it was but a fancy – a sorry hallucination."

"I do not understand you, Captain Ryecroft!"

"Oh, yes, you do. Pardon my contradicting you; you've given me reason."

"Indeed! In what way? I beg, nay, demand, explanation."

"You shall have it; though superfluous, I should think, after what has been passing – this night especially."

"Oh! this night especially! I supposed you so much engaged with Miss Powell as not to have noticed anything or anybody else. What was it, pray?"

"You understand, I take it, without need of my entering into particulars."

"Indeed, I don't – unless you refer to my dancing with George Shenstone."

"More than dancing with him – keeping his company all through!"

"Not strange that, seeing I was left so free to keep it! Besides, as I suppose you know, his father was my father's oldest and most intimate friend."

She makes this avowal condescendingly, observing he is really vexed, and thinking the game of contraries has gone far enough. He has given her a sight of his cards, and with the quick, subtle instinct of woman, she sees that among them Miss Powell is no longer chief trump. Were his perception as keen as hers, their jealous conflict would now come to a close, and between them confidence and friendship, stronger than ever, be restored.

Unfortunately it is not to be. Still miscomprehending, yet unyielding, he rejoins sneeringly, —

"And I suppose your father's daughter is determined to continue that intimacy with his father's son, which might not be so very pleasant to him who should be your husband! Had I thought of that when I placed a ring upon your finger – "

Before he can finish, she has plucked it off, and, drawing herself up to full height, says in bitter retort, —

"You insult me, sir! Take it back!"

With the words, the gemmed circlet is flung upon the little rustic table, from which it rolls off.

He has not been prepared for such abrupt issue, though his rude speech tempted it. Somewhat sorry, but still too exasperated to confess or show it, he rejoins defiantly, —

"If you wish it to end so, let it!"

"Yes; let it!"

They part without further speech. He, being nearest the door, goes out first, taking no heed of the diamond cluster which lies sparkling upon the floor.

Neither does she touch, or think of it. Were it the Koh-i-noor, she would not care for it now. A jewel more precious – the one love of her life – is lost, cruelly crushed – and, with heart all but breaking, she sinks down upon the bench, draws the shawl over her face, and weeps till its rich silken tissue is saturated with her tears.

The wild spasm passed, she rises to her feet, and stands leaning upon the baluster rail, looking out and listening. Still dark, she sees nothing, but hears the stroke of a boat's oars in measured and regular repetition – listens on till the sound becomes indistinct, blending with the sough of the river, the sighing of the breeze, and the natural voices of the night.

She may never hear his voice, never look on his face again!

At the thought she exclaims, in anguished accent, "This the ending! It is too – "

What she designed saying is not said. Her interrupted words are continued into a shriek – one wild cry – then her lips are sealed, suddenly, as if stricken dumb, or dead!

Not by the visitation of God. Before losing consciousness, she felt the embrace of brawny arms – knew herself the victim of man's violence.

CHAPTER XXX

STUNNED AND SILENT

Down in the boat-dock, upon the thwarts of his skiff, sits the young waterman awaiting his fare. He has been up to the house, and there hospitably entertained – feasted. But with the sorrow of his recent bereavement still fresh, the revelry of the servants' hall had no fascination for him – instead, only saddening him the more. Even the blandishments of the French femme de chambre could not detain him; and fleeing them, he has returned to his boat long before he expects being called upon to use the oars.

Seated, pipe in mouth – for Jack too indulges in tobacco – he is endeavouring to put in the time as well as he can; irksome at best with that bitter grief upon him. And it is present all the while, with scarce a moment of surcease, his thoughts ever dwelling on her who is sleeping her last sleep in the burying-ground at Rugg's Ferry.

While thus disconsolately reflecting, a sound falls upon his ears which claims his attention, and for an instant or two occupies it. If anything, it was the dip of an oar; but so light that only one with ears well trained to distinguish noises of the kind could tell it to be that. He, however, has no doubt of it, muttering to himself, —

"Wonder whose boat can be on the river this time o' night – mornin', I ought to say? Wouldn't be a tourist party – starting off so early. No; can't be that. Like enough Dick Dempsey out a-salmon stealin'! The night so dark – just the sort for the rascal to be about on his unlawful business."

While thus conjecturing, a scowl, dark as the night itself, flits over his own face.

"Yes; a coracle!" he continues; "must 'a been the plash o' a paddle. If't had been a regular boat's oar, I'd a heerd the thumpin' against the thole pins."

For once the waterman is in error. It is no paddle whose stroke he has heard, nor a coracle impelled by it; but a boat rowed by a pair of oars. And why there is no "thumpin' against the thole pins" is because the oars are muffled. Were he out in the main channel – two hundred yards above the byway – he would see the craft itself with three men in it. But only at that instant, as in the next it is headed into a bed of "witheys" – flooded by the freshet – and pushed on through them to the bank beyond.

Soon it touches terra firma, the men spring out; two of them going off towards the grounds of Llangorren Court. The third remains by the boat.

Meanwhile, Jack Wingate, in his skiff, continues listening; but hearing no repetition of the sound that had so slightly reached his ear, soon ceases to think of it, again giving way to his grief, as he returns to reflect on what lies in the chapel cemetery. If he but knew how near the two things were together – the burying-ground and the boat – he would not be long in his own.

Relieved he is when at length voices are heard up at the house – calls for carriages – proclaiming the ball about to break up. Still more gratified, as the banging of doors, and the continuous rumble of wheels, tell of the company fast clearing off.

For nigh half an hour the rattling is incessant; then there is a lull, and he listens for a sound of a different sort – a footfall on the stone stairs that lead down to the little dock – that of his fare, who may at any moment be expected.

Instead of footsteps, he hears voices on the cliff above, off in the direction of the summer-house. Nothing to surprise him that. It is not the first time he has listened to the same, and under very similar circumstances; for soon as hearing he recognises them. But it is the first time for him to note their tone as it is now – to his astonishment that of anger.

"They be quarrellin', I declare," he says to himself. "Wonder what for! Somethin' crooked's come between 'em at the ball – bit o' jealousy, maybe. I shudn't be surprised if it's about young Mr. Shenstone. Sure as eggs is eggs, the Captain have ugly ideas consarnin' him. He needn't though, an' wouldn't, if he seed through the eyes o' a sensible man. Course, bein' deep in love, he can't. I seed it long ago. She be mad about him as he o' her – if not madder. Well; I daresay it be only a lovers' quarrel, an'll soon blow over. Woe's me! I weesh – "

He would say, "I weesh 'twar only that 'twixt myself an' Mary," but the words break upon his lips, while a scalding tear trickles down his cheek.

Fortunately his anguished sorrow is not allowed further indulgence for the time. The footstep so long listened for is at length upon the boat stair; not firm, in its wonted way, but as though he making it were intoxicated!

But Wingate does not believe it is that. He knows the Captain to be abstemious, or, at all events, not greatly given to drink. He has never seen him overcome by it; and surely he would not be, on this night in particular. Unless, indeed, it may have to do with the angry speech overheard, or the something thought of preceding it!

The conjectures of the waterman are brought to an end by the arrival of his fare at the bottom of the boat stair, where he stops only to ask —

"Are you there, Jack?"

The pitchy darkness accounts for the question.

Receiving answer in the affirmative, he gropes his way along the ledge of rock, reeling like a drunken man. Not from drink, but the effects of that sharp, defiant rejoinder still ringing in his ears. He seems to hear, in every gust of the wind swirling down from the cliff above, the words, "Yes; let it!"

He knows where the skiff should be – where it was left – beyond the pleasure boat. The dock is not wide enough for both abreast, and to reach his own he must go across the other – make a gang-plank of the Gwendoline.

As he sets foot upon the thwarts of the pleasure craft, has he a thought of what were his feelings when he first planted it there, after ducking the Forest of Dean fellow? Or, stepping off, does he spurn the boat with angry heel, as in angry speech he has done her whose name it bears? Neither. He is too excited and confused to think of the past, or aught but the black, bitter present.

Still staggering, he drops down upon the stern sheets of the skiff, commanding the waterman to shove off. A command promptly obeyed, and in silence. Jack can see the Captain is out of sorts, and, suspecting the reason, naturally supposes that speech at such time might not be welcome. He says nothing, therefore; but, bending to his oars, pulls on up the byway.

Just outside its entrance a glimpse can be got of the little pavilion – by looking back. And Captain Ryecroft does this, over his shoulder; for, seated at the tiller, his face is from it. The light is still there, burning dimly as ever. For all, he is enabled to trace the outlines of a figure, in shadowy silhouette– a woman standing by the baluster rail, as if looking out over it.

He knows who it is: it can only be Gwen Wynn. Well were it for both could he but know what she is at that moment thinking. If he did, back would go his boat, and the two again be together – perhaps never more to part in spite.

Just then, as if ominous, and in spiteful protest against such consummation, the sombre sandstone cliff draws between, and Captain Ryecroft is carried onward, with heart dark and heavy as the rock.

CHAPTER XXXI

A STARTLING CRY

During all this while Wingate has not spoken a word, though he also has observed the same figure in the pavilion. With face that way, he could not avoid noticing it, and easily guesses who she is. Had he any doubt, the behaviour of the other would remove it.

"Miss Wynn, for sartin," he thinks to himself, but says nothing.

Again turning his eyes upon his patron, he notes the distraught air, with head drooping, and feels the effect in having to contend against the rudder ill-directed. But he forbears making remark. At such a moment his interference might not be tolerated – perhaps resented. And so the silence continues.

Not much longer. A thought strikes the waterman, and he ventures a word about the weather. It is done for a kindly feeling – for he sees how the other suffers – but in part because he has a reason for it. The observation is, —